Anne listened to the murmurs of the crowd outside the Tower. It sounded like most of London had come. Then the crowd fell suddenly silent. She could feel its anticipation and knew what would have quieted them.

Was it Francis Weston? Henry Norris? George?

She thought she heard a thud. She held her breath, listening intently for any reaction from the crowd. When the cheers reached her ears, she felt sick.

“Your Majesty?” Catherine stood expectantly before her. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” Anne said, waving the girl back to her seat. Catherine obediently sat back down and resumed her needlework.

Again, the crowd fell silent, eager in its anticipation for more blood. The axe fell again, creating another thud that pierced the walls of the Tower. Anne gripped her skirts in a white-knuckled grip as another wave of nausea broke over her.

How had she fallen so far? She had won Henry from both Mary and the Queen. She had been crowned before the whole nation. She had given him a daughter. She had had it all.

Then it had all fallen apart. Henry had grown to hate her. Her allies had become her enemies and her family had abandoned her.

There would be no reprieve for her. She knew that now. The offer of safe transport to a convent in France was merely a ploy to get her to sign the papers to free Henry from their marriage.

“Fool,” she muttered.

“Your Majesty?”

Anne shook her head. Catherine immediately sat back down. Again the girl resumed her needlework.

She observed her niece. Catherine had been the perfect lady-in-waiting even under these trying circumstances. Never once had the girl complained or faltered in her duties.

What would happen to her when the guards came? Surely Catherine, an innocent, would be spared. The girl had nothing more wrong than her duty.

But duty was a dangerous thing now a days. Mary’s duty to her family had started all of this. Who would have thought that simple Mary would enchant the king?

Would her sister ever forgive her for bringing Catherine with her to Tower? It had been a final vindictive act of her petty jealousy. How foolish it all seemed now.

She had had it all. But that was not good enough for Anne Boleyn. Oh, no. She wanted more.

Her jealousy and greed had been her downfall. And how far she had fallen.

Who would she drag down with her? George? Catherine? Mary?

“God, please forgive me,” she prayed.

Even through her desperate prayers, she could hear the next thud. Again the axe had fallen. It was only a matter of time before it would fall for her as well.